


faith in the lord is something i can never have

by mansgotalimit



Series: confession [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M, References to Child Abuse, Religion, Religious Guilt, do not read this if you are catholic probably, dont worry i do actually have some that i've been toying with i just can't get em right, god just realised i havent written a reunion fic in like 2 weeks who am i, my brand will be back up and running
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25764028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansgotalimit/pseuds/mansgotalimit
Summary: Twisted though it was, it had been his mam who had put the thought in his mind.“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, Noel,” she’d said one day, bustling around the kitchen as she’d made him a cup of tea. Noel had huffed out a humourless laugh, raising his eyebrows as he’d stared down at the table. Was it that obvious?“Feels like it sometimes,” he’d said. Although that might just be the perma-hangover.“You know, Father John is always there,” his mam had said, flicking the switch on the kettle.
Relationships: Liam Gallagher/Noel Gallagher
Series: confession [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869049
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	faith in the lord is something i can never have

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to hell i'm going to hell i'm going to hell 
> 
> also i am not catholic myself this is all dredged up from memories and conversations w a catholic friend who certainly does not know to what use the knowledge she was giving me was put so its likely highly inaccurate but i think thats the least of the sins i'm committing here
> 
> this was born out of a conversation with the immeasurably wonderful [OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed/pseuds/OnTheWrongSideOfTheBed) to whom as per i owe a huge debt for reading through the whole thing when i wrote it days ago and for encouraging me to post it and being an all-round sweetheart

Twisted though it was, it had been his mam who had put the thought in his mind. 

“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, Noel,” she’d said one day, bustling around the kitchen as she’d made him a cup of tea. Noel had huffed out a humourless laugh, raising his eyebrows as he’d stared down at the table. Was it that obvious? 

“Feels like it sometimes,” he’d said. Although that might just be the perma-hangover.

“You know, Father John is always there,” his mam had said, flicking the switch on the kettle. She’d turned around, and fixed him with a hard look. “He’s a nice man.” 

“I know, I know,” Noel had said, not in the mood for a Catholic guilt-trip. His mam had sighed, knowing it would be a waste of time to push it further, turned back to the kettle, and changed the topic of conversation. 

“What’s our Liam been up to, then?”

Noel hadn’t thought about it again for a while, preoccupied with his band and his girlfriend and his daughter, until he and Liam had gone home for a visit one warm Sunday in June. He usually tried to visit without Liam, hated the way their absence from the house had made the mundane memories of breakfast and squabbling fade and left him with nothing but images of fucking Liam on a Monday night after work, his cock in Liam’s mouth just before dinner, his fingers deep in Liam’s arse with the telly blaring when they still had a good hour until Paul got home. Liam insisted this time, though, said he wanted to see his mates anyway, and Noel couldn’t find a good enough excuse to postpone his own visit, so they’d bundled themselves into a car and driven to Manchester. 

Liam had been surprisingly well-behaved on the journey; only made Noel grit his teeth in frustration four times, and lapsed into silence as they’d passed the airport, staring out of the window with an oddly pensive expression on his face. 

“‘S weird coming back, sometimes, innit?” he’d said quietly, as they’d driven slowly through Didsbury, caught in the lunchtime traffic. 

“What d’you mean?” Noel had asked, and Liam had shrugged. 

“Feels like we’re too big for this place, sometimes,” he’d said, eyes trained on the Poundland they’d been passing. “Sort of miss the old days, y’know? Things were easier back then.” 

“Easier?” Noel had said, raising an eyebrow. “What was easier? We had no fucking money.” Liam had shrugged again, eyes flitting to Noel.

“Me and you was easier,” he’d said pointedly, and Noel had sighed. He’s right. It had been easier when there had only been a handful of people to worry about hiding it from, not millions, no wife or girlfriend or kids to feel guilty about. 

“Yeah, well,” Noel had said, because he’d had too much to say to even know where to begin, and Liam had turned back to the window, but his hand had fallen onto the seat between the two of them. Noel had glanced at the driver quickly, tried to envision what the guy could see from where he was sat, if he’d wanted to, and then shifted a little to the left, let his hand drop down and his fingers find their way between Liam’s, giving them a quick squeeze before letting go again. 

It had been years since the last time Noel and Liam had visited together, years since Noel had seen this grown-up version of Liam sprawled across the sofa in the same way he used to ten years ago, and it somehow made the house feel even more claustrophobic. Noel had sipped his tea in silence while Liam chattered excitedly about their next few gigs and the songs Noel had already written for the new album, trying not to superimpose the Liam of all those years ago that had been pink-cheeked and moaning and fucking himself down on Noel’s cock over the Liam that was sat there now, gesturing animatedly about chord structures and singing. 

“-they’re  _ mega, _ mam, you should hear the one Noel wrote about, what’s it, laziness, or summat, ‘s going to be fucking  _ huge. _ Oh, and I’ve wrote one too,” Liam had said, all proud, shooting Noel a glance, like he was making sure Noel was listening. Noel had frowned, and put his teacup back on the saucer. That was news to him. 

“That’s nice, Liam,” their mam had said idly, perpetually unimpressed by their rock-and-roll lifestyle. “What’s it called?” Liam had thrown Noel another look, and said: 

“Guess God Thinks I’m Abel.” 

“Able?” Noel had said. “Able to do what?” 

“No, Abel,” Liam had corrected. 

“Yeah, able, I just said that.” 

“No,  _ Abel,  _ A-B-E-L. Like, from the Bible, and that.” Noel’s frown had deepened. 

“Does that make me Cain?” Liam had shrugged, which was a yes. 

“Oh, now, Liam, that’s not very nice,” their mam had said, her own frown matching Noel’s. “Your brother loves you. You be nice to him.” Liam and Noel’s eyes had met.  _ Yeah, he does,  _ they’d both been thinking.  _ Maybe a little too much. _

“Who said I wasn’t being nice?” Liam had said breezily, leaning back on the sofa and spreading his arms across the back. 

“You just wrote a song about me murdering you,” Noel had pointed out. 

“You haven’t heard it,” Liam had said. “You don’t know what it’s about.” And that had been that. 

Noel never really puts much thought into the whole religious thing anymore. He’d grown up Catholic, went to church every Sunday like a good boy, said his prayers and sang his hymns and got on his knees when he was told to - even did the whole Catholic school business - but he’d become disillusioned with it almost as soon as he was old enough to tell right from wrong. Right wasn’t Noel’s Catholic father beating his wife and sons, nor the Church shaming his mother for trying to leave, was it? And wrong most definitely wasn’t how he felt years later, when Liam had his lips wrapped around Noel’s cock, big blue eyes staring up at him with something so sweet and so adoring that it made Noel come harder and faster than ever. 

His mam had understood when he’d told her, but been disappointed nonetheless. He’d kept going to church on Sundays for a while, keeping up appearances so that Liam would keep going too, kept sitting in that confessional and telling old Father Paul  _ I am sorry for my sins with all my heart _ while he’d been fidgeting in his seat, desperate to go back home and get so stoned he couldn’t see straight anymore. He could probably still do that now, he thinks, still knows all the right words and rituals and when to stand and when to sit and when to kneel and how to lie through his teeth in front of his priest and God. It’s not something you forget, really, no matter how long it’s been. 

He’s still thinking about it when Liam leaves to go and see his mates, still wondering what Cain and Abel have to do with him and Liam, and when their mam says she’s got the boiler man coming in half an hour, Noel decides he’ll go for a walk, not wanting to be cooped up in the house with the echoes of Liam imprinted on every inch of its surface. 

He heads first to the park, ambles around and watches kids play football and kick each other’s heads in and sneak drinks under the climbing frame, and then ambles along some residential streets, breathing in Manchester and letting the two-up two-downs seep into his heart and soul. He doesn’t even realise his feet are taking him in the direction of their old church until it’s too late and he’s already stood outside, gazing up at the little building that had always felt so big and imposing but now feels like the worn-out mask of a well-told lie. He gazes up the gravel driveway, thinking of all the times Liam would be dragged quite literally kicking and screaming by their mam and forced to sit in Sunday school, forced to his knees to say his prayers and forced back to his feet to sing his hymns. Noel can’t help but smile a little at the memory - Liam had never found any respite in religion, had never gone through the stage of sitting in the pews while Father Paul banged on and on about respecting your parents and thought desperately  _ God, why me? Why does he hate me? What did I do? _

Noel wonders whether those same pews are still there, whether the ghosts of his hopeless childhood confusion are still breathing in the dusty air of the church, and he finds himself heading up the driveway and pushing open the creaky old door that still hasn’t been oiled before he’s really thought anything else, stepping into the threshold of the building and inhaling the familiar, musty scent. Old books, he thinks, as he makes his way around one of the pews, fingers trailing lightly over the back of it. Old books, old wood, old people. 

(They are the same pews.) 

A creak startles him, and he looks up in surprise to see an elderly lady making her way out of the confessional, the old wood groaning under her feet as she steps out. She smiles at him, warm and genuine, and moves slowly around the backs of the pews, shuffling into one near the door to pray. Noel wonders how many Hail Marys she was given. He doesn’t think he’s ever had any fewer than ten. 

The confessional hasn’t changed either, still has the same dusty and faded curtains hanging heavily over the front, and Noel finds himself walking over and reaching out, letting his fingers run through the worn velvet. These curtains have heard all of his darkest secrets, he thinks, as he fingers the soft fabric in his hand. 

Well. Almost all of them.

Only one secret remains. There’s only one thing that these curtains, these pews, these flagstones haven’t heard, and that’s because Noel stopped coming long before that secret began. He wonders whether he would have told it, had he still been here. He wonders how many Our Fathers that would have earnt him. 

There’s one thing the Catholic Church does like no other, Noel thinks a little bitterly, staring at the curtain hanging heavy over the tiny room inside, and that’s guilt. Nothing’s ever enough for them; he could never pray enough, or repent enough, or be good enough. Everything was always his fault, every bad thought about his father whenever he was nursing a fresh black eye and every girl he fucked under the stairwell in the science block at school. He remembers telling Father Paul about his first girlfriend, about how he’d shagged her in her room at home while her parents were away, and being told he was a lustful sinner and sent away with instructions to beg God five times not to lead him into temptation. He hadn’t, because he’d sat at home, his mam’s rosary between his fingers, and thought  _ but I love her. Isn’t Christianity about love?  _ He wonders the same thing now, as the worn velvet of the curtain seems to dig through his fingertips into the blood pumping through his veins, injecting venomous guilt as it moves. If Christianity is built on a foundation of love, how could him and Liam be wrong? 

The thing about growing up Catholic is that it’s in his bones, now, part of the fabric that makes up Noel Gallagher. It may need some oiling, but Noel remembers how to be a good Catholic, how to say his prayers and do his penance, remembers how to hold his tongue out for the Eucharist, remembers when to mumble his  _ peace be upon you _ s and his  _ and also with you _ s. He remembers the stories of Samson and of Lazarus - and of Cain and Abel - and he remembers the carols he’d stand at the front of the church and sing alongside the choir at Christmas.

And he remembers, all too vividly, the seal of confession. 

It had been what allowed him to tell Father Paul about his father, about where he got the black eyes that he turned up to Sunday school with, about how he didn’t know whether he believed in God anymore. He’d always felt oddly better afterwards, lighter knowing that the secret he was carrying was no longer only his. It was why he kept going long after he stopped caring, his confessions getting more and more bitter and vitriolic as the years went on and his disillusion grew.  _ Ten Hail Marys, _ he’d be told when he said he’d been smoking weed, or  _ three Our Fathers _ for shagging the girl across the road _. _ He always wondered whether his own father came in and said  _ I beat my wife and kids, _ and how many Hail Marys that would merit. It clearly didn’t merit telling the police or social services, and if Father Paul could live with himself seeing Noel with another bruised eye or split lip, then Noel’s secrets were safe too. 

It’s that thought that makes him draw the curtain aside, pulling it back just enough to duck into the cramped confessional and sit down, letting the curtain swing back in its place and plunge him into near-darkness. He can see the outline of the priest on the other side in the dim light, staring steadfastly ahead of him while he waits for Noel to speak. 

So, touching first his forehead, then chest, then each shoulder to oil his cogs, Noel breathes in deeply, and says: “Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” 

The words feel somewhere between natural and forced, like picking up a vice he’d given up long ago, too loud in the curtained silence of the confessional. It’s splitting open a part of Noel’s mind that he’d forgotten was still there, though, blowing dust off a box labelled  _ Irish Catholic _ that Noel hasn’t touched in two decades, and his tongue carries on automatically before his brain has had the chance to catch up. 

“It’s been eighteen years since my last confession.” Eighteen years, fucking hell. Or maybe Jesus Christ. Noel’s not sure which one feels more inappropriate here. 

“What are your sins, my child?” the priest - Father John, Noel remembers - says, in a solemn voice. Noel opens his mouth, and then closes it again. 

How the fuck do you tell someone you’re fucking your brother? 

“I-” Noel starts, and then stops again. Father John doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently, probably used to people not knowing how to confess their darkest secrets. Noel wonders whether this will be the darkest he’s heard. Maybe it’d be better to start small. 

“I take drugs,” he says. Safe territory; a confession he’s made hundreds of times. “I- well. I don’t do coke anymore, but I did. A lot. And I still do others.” 

“Have you repented for your sins?” 

“I- no.” 

“How long has it been since you consumed such drugs?” Noel counts. 

“Five hours.” 

“And the cocaine?”

“Five years.” Father John makes a  _ hmm _ sound, like he’s thinking it through. 

“Are these your sins?”

“No,” Noel says hastily. “There’s more.” Father John waits, and Noel swallows, before continuing. “I- uh. I’m unfaithful to my girlfriend.” He winces at the words. It’s true, he knows it, but it’s never felt like cheating, because it’s Liam. If anything, he’s cheating on Liam with Sara, because Liam was there first. 

Father John doesn’t say anything to that, like he knows there’s something more to it. Noel’s probably being a little too obvious about it, inhaling like he’s about to speak and then stopping himself and exhaling again, but he’s here now, isn’t he, and he’s come this far, so he might as well say it. 

He clears his throat a little self-consciously, and tries again. 

“The person I’m unfaithful with is somebody I shouldn’t be with,” he says, and Father John hums. Well-trodden ground, clearly. Noel wonders what’s running through his mind right now -  _ the nanny of my kids, _ maybe, or  _ my boss, _ or  _ my girlfriend’s best friend. _

“Are you aware of why you shouldn’t be?” Father John asks, not unkindly, and Noel nods, and takes a deep breath, trying to use the stuffy air of the confessional to alleviate the weight of the guilt pressing on his chest. 

“He’s my brother.” 

The words seem to reverberate around them, billowing into a silence so loud that Noel’s tinnitus starts ringing in his ear. It might just be the way his heart is pounding, though. He’s never said those words out loud, never had an occasion to. Who’s he going to say it to? Liam? Liam already knows, doesn’t need reminding that they’re brothers, although Noel thinks he gets off on it as much as Noel does when Noel’s deep inside him, their blue eyes locked together, like looking into a mirror. 

“Your brother?” Father John says, like he’s not quite sure what he’s just heard. Noel doesn’t blame him. 

“Yeah,” Noel says, the word coming out before he’s even thought about it. It sort of feels like the floodgates have opened, somehow, all the pent-up anguish and twisted love clawing its way up his throat and spilling out of his lips. “My little brother. Five years younger.” There’s another pause. 

“And how long...?” Father John doesn’t seem able to really say the words  _ how long have you been shagging your brother. _ Or maybe not shagging; Noel’s not sure what a priest would use.  _ Knowing, _ maybe, or  _ fornicating, _ or  _ copulating. _

“Thirteen years.” 

Thirteen fucking years. Longer than any relationship Noel’s ever had - probably longer than any relationship Noel ever will have, because he can’t give himself over to a woman completely when so much of his heart is with Liam. Because that’s the problem, really, isn’t it? It’s not just sex, not just stolen kisses and handjobs and Liam on his knees in dirty hotel rooms. It’s love. 

“I was twenty-three when it started,” Noel says, even though Father John hadn’t asked. Confession’s about getting it  _ all _ out, though, isn’t it?  _ Your soul cannot heal if you cannot confess fully, _ Father Paul used to say,  _ and you cannot regain the grace of God without a full confession. _ Noel thinks he’s probably too far gone on the regaining the grace of God front, but as far as he’s aware he still has a soul, somewhere deep down. It may be torn to shreds by the love he has for Liam, or maybe by the guilt that surges in its wake, but maybe this will start to sew those scraps back together again. And anyway, God already knows what’s happening, doesn’t he, if the bastard exists, knows about the way Liam’s fingers will slot in between Noel’s like they’re custom-made to fit as he falls asleep on Noel’s chest with Noel’s come leaking out of him. 

“He was eighteen,” Noel continues, the words coming to his lips as if of their own accord, like a gag’s been lifted, like the superinjunction he’d placed on his heart has finally expired. “He came to my flat one day, drunk out of his mind, and kissed me. Said he knew I wanted it, he was just doing the both of us a favour, getting it out of the way so we could move onto bigger and better things. And then...well.” He shrugs, even though Father John can’t see him. “I fucked him for the first time not two months later. And it’s been thirteen years since then.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Noel wonders what’s going through Father John’s mind. Do they teach them this in seminary? Is there a codex he can refer to that lists the penances to be done for incest? How is he reconciling Noel’s words with his own beliefs?

“You have fallen into a grave, grave sin of lust,” Father John tells him eventually, and Noel shakes his head. It’s not lust. Sure, he wants Liam on his knees and on his back more than he wants him on his feet, but it’s not because of lust. 

“No,” he says. “‘S not lust.” He hesitates, his next words faltering on his tongue. He never says these words; not to himself, not to Liam, not to fucking anyone. But Father John can’t tell, and God won’t tell, and Liam will never know. So, he takes a deep breath, and says: “I love him. I’m  _ in love _ with him.” 

“This is a mortal sin,” Father John says. “If you do not repent before death, you will face damnation.” Noel huffs out a humourless laugh. Repent? What good’ll that do? Will repentance wipe his heart clean of all traces of Liam?

“Repent?” he echoes. “My dad used to come here and repent every Sunday, and then beat the shit out of me every Monday.” 

“Repentance clears the soul of sin,” Father John says. 

“Does it?” Noel says, a little bitterly. “I’ll go to hell for loving, but my dad won’t go to hell for hating?” 

“If you do not repent.” Noel snorts, can’t help himself. It’s no good, anyway. Liam’s carved himself into Noel’s heart, into his lungs and his bones, and even if he hadn’t, they have the same blood coursing through them. Repentance can’t change biology.

“I can’t repent,” he says. That old Catholicism is stirring in him, rising from his bones to his blood. He knows what repentance takes, and knows that he doesn’t have it in him because he’s not fucking sorry. He’s in love with his little brother, and his conscience is sound asleep, and Noel has no intentions of poking at it. “I’m not sorry.” 

“What brings you to confess?” Father John asks. It’s a good question. Noel has to think about it for a moment, has to think about the  _ why now? _ as well as the  _ why, _ and then he sighs and shrugs. Because he wanted to, he finds is his answer. Because he didn’t want to carry the burden alone anymore. 

“I used to come here,” Noel says. “When I was a kid. I told this church every secret in my soul.” He shrugs. “This was the last one left.” 

“I believe your soul is crying out,” Father John says. “The Lord works in many ways, and He strives to lead His children from temptation and deliver them from evil.” Yeah, yeah. Noel knows those lines like he knows the veins on Liam’s cock, inside out and back to front. “I believe it is significant that, after twelve years, you choose now to confess, and that you confess at all when it would be easy to keep the secret. Perhaps your soul is closer than your mind realises to repentance.” 

“Or maybe I just needed to tell someone,” Noel counters. “Thirteen years is a long time to be in love and have to hide it.” 

“What you feel is not  _ love,” _ Father John says emphatically. “It is  _ lust, _ child, and the work of the Devil.” Christ, what fucking century is Noel in? 

“It’s love,” he says firmly. He might not be able to say the words to Liam, might scoff and say  _ I hate him, he’s a cunt  _ whenever it comes up with anyone else, but here, where the words are spoken between himself and a priest and possibly also God, he feels safe. God sees his heart and soul anyway, doesn’t He, sees it bared before Him and dripping in sin, so it doesn’t really matter. Noel’s not telling Him anything new. 

“You  _ must  _ repent,” Father John presses. 

“I’m not sorry,” Noel repeats. “I love him, and I love fucking him, and I’m not fucking sorry.” He pauses, and then, when Father John doesn’t speak, adds: “These are my sins.” 

There’s a long, long moment of silence, and Noel sits back and exhales, feeling oddly exhilarated. The stale air of the confessional feels like the first air he’s ever breathed, and he inhales deeply, exhaling without a touch of torment for the first time in thirteen years. His confession is over; it’s on Father John to give him his penance, now. What price does Noel have to pay for loving Liam?

“These are amongst the gravest of sins,” Father John says after a while, and Noel’s heart twists in his chest, anger rising like bile in his throat. How the fuck can love be a grave sin? Isn’t God supposed to be omnibenevolent? Isn’t love one of the core tenets of Christianity? “You have strayed far from Him and His Grace. Your penance will be ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers in the morning and evening after examining your conscience until your heart is ready to repent, a work of mercy at least once a year, and compulsory attendance at church and confession once weekly.” 

“I can’t,” Noel says shortly, vaguely aware of the way his hands have balled into fists on his lap. “I’m in a band. Travel a lot.” 

“Then as often as you are able,” Father John says. Noel exhales heavily. He’s not going to fucking do it - what the fuck would Liam say if he saw Noel on his knees murmuring  _ Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name _ every morning, taste of Liam’s cock still fresh on his tongue? - but it feels like a strange relief all the same, putting a price on his sin, makes it feel like it maybe isn’t all that bad, if there’s a concrete way to undo it. 

“Thank you, father,” he says, and bows his head. “My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against thee, whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with thy help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Saviour Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy.” The words drip off his lips saturated in irony, dredged up from some corner of his memory that he didn’t even know he could still access. His lying in the presence of God would probably merit him a few more Hail Marys, if Father John knew. 

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins,” Father John says, in the gravest voice Noel thinks he’s ever heard. “Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” As he starts the final part, Noel’s hand comes back up again, and he makes the sign of the cross automatically, the action still muscle memory after all these years. 

“Amen.” 

Noel only hesitates for a moment before getting to his feet and leaving the confessional, pulling the curtain back and squinting slightly as the bright light filtering through the high windows hits his eyes. He blinks, shields his eyes and looks up, making out the cobwebs in the rafters that are probably the same ones that were there the last time Noel was here, and as he walks a little further away he turns to look over at the altar. It’s definitely still got the same cloth on it that Father Paul used to drape over it, rich red faded to a sort of pinkish colour, gold tassels more beige than anything. The stained glass window above the altar is the same, too - Noel remembers picking out all the different scenes depicted in it while Father Paul’s sermons washed over him - only the huge wooden cross above the altar with a fairly miserable-looking Jesus nailed to it is new, oddly stark against the washed-out colours of the rest of the church. Noel stares at it for a moment, eyes trailing from Jesus’ crown of thorns to his bedraggled hair and roaming across his torso down to his feet and back again. Jesus is always fucking ripped, he thinks. No one ever depicts him as a skinny little fuck, do they? He wonders whether the sinful thoughts crossing the sculptors’ minds as they carve out Jesus’ abs and dick warrant more than ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. 

Loath though he is to admit it to himself, something about churches always makes him feel at peace. He goes to see them, sometimes, when everyone else is monged in Italy or Germany, tells himself he’s viewing the architecture and art but sits in the pews and soaks in the peace. It feels forbidden, like something he shouldn’t be allowed to witness with the state his soul is in, like he’s encroaching on something beautiful, but he savours it all the same, laps up the quiet and serenity and hopes it’s patching up at least some of his torn-up soul. It’s never felt quite like this, though, the peace of a church he knows so well, of pews his fingers grabbed onto when they were smaller and stickier, of flagstones he tripped across on his way to sing carols, of walls he counted the bricks in while ignoring the lecture Father Paul was giving. Noel feels like he’s being stitched back together by the very fabric of the church, the altar and the stained-glass window his needle, his confession the thread. 

It does feel better, Noel thinks, as he slides into a pew and blinks up at Jesus. It feels good to have someone else know his most terrible secret, the impossible truth. Maybe Mam had had a point when she’d said he looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Liam was the world to Noel, sort of, wasn’t he? Colleague, brother, lover. What other roles are there to play? 

As he’s sitting there, the curtain to the other side of the confessional opens, and Father John steps out. He’s a young man, somewhere in his thirties if Noel were to hazard a guess, and he pulls back the curtains on both sides of the confessional and bows to it, makes the sign of the cross, murmurs something under his breath and kisses his rosary, and then turns away, heading back to the altar. 

And, as he lifts his head, makes direct eye contact with Noel. 

Noel watches it cross his face. Shock, disgust, shock, confusion, more shock. Noel should look away but can’t, eyes glued to Father John’s by the secret that now binds the two of them together. 

_ Noel Gallagher and Liam Gallagher are shagging.  _ He can almost see the words forming in Father John’s mind.  _ Noel and Liam from Oasis are having sex. Noel and Liam Gallagher have been having sex for thirteen years. Noel Gallagher’s in love with his brother. Oh, shit. Noel and Liam Gallagher are in love.  _ Or maybe not oh, shit.  _ Oh, goodness gracious,  _ maybe. 

He holds Father John’s gaze.  _ Yeah, _ his eyes say.  _ And what about it? _

Father John blinks at him, bows his head a little, and then looks away, walks over to the altar a little unsteadily, like he’s in a dream. Noel’s gaze follows him, watches as he picks up the Bible from the altar and stares at it for a moment, like he’s not quite sure whether it still holds its weight after what he’s just found out. 

Well, good, Noel thinks selfishly, and stretches out on the pew, letting his head tip back to stare at the dusty rafters. He hopes Father John has to pray on this, has to ask for an explanation as to why love is right but Noel and Liam’s is wrong. Anyway, he’s doing Father John a favour, really, isn’t he? The poor bloke would be out of a job without sinners. 

(And, when Liam kisses him square on the lips on TV a few weeks later, spurred on by adrenaline, Noel can’t help but wonder whether Father John is watching somewhere, knowing that the way Noel’s eyes light up and Liam’s lips curve up into a smile isn’t just the mark of brothers, but lovers.) 


End file.
